


Founding

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Biting, Bloodplay, Dark, Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e08 Doppleganger, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not sure how the pretty pet who wears it will react.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Founding

There’s a hint of skin, slick and shiny with red edges, on the back of his neck.

Spike curls his fingers into fists, knuckles bleaching white with effort. He wants to touch that patch of skin. It’ll be sensitive, he knows, especially on the edges where it hasn’t really healed and probably never truly will. Burns can be like that. But that’s not why he wants to let the pads of his fingers glide over that quarter-sized bit of scarring.

He’s not sure how the pretty pet who wears it will react.

The boy’s asleep, finally, babbling himself into exhausted silence. For a while, Spike had been sure he’d never, _ever_ shut that gob of his, but eventually the weight of hot food in his belly and soft covers over top of him had worked their magic, and he’d drifted off into repose.

He’s prettier when he’s quiet, Spike thinks. Not that he’s unappealing when he’s verbally dissecting just about everything around him, quips and taunts flying faster than any stand up comedians beats. But like this, he looks as young as he really is, baby-fat still clinging to his cheeks, a limber body that taunts Spike with possibilities. Yes, quiet is much better. They’ll have to work on that.

A soft, slippery susurration draws a smile on Spike’s face. “Love,” he greets, low, so not to wake his new toy.

“Woven like wonders,” Drusilla greets him, sliding onto bed in front of the boy. He won’t wake, not with the dosing Spike gave him, so he doesn’t object when Dru’s hands caress skin that’s tawny-pink against her porcelain. Pretty as a doll, is his Dru. “Is the cheese all gone? Turned to mold and rot, fuzzy and blue?”

“No, love, all snapped up.” Spike lets his fingers brush against hers, then cards them through short, curling locks that are still sweaty at the base. He’d been terrified, the pretty boy, shivering and shaking like a rabbit who knows he’s caught for dinner. Run right into Spike’s arms, he did, so scared. So _trusting_. “Do you like him, then? He’s got a mouth on him.”

Drusilla’s fingers are tipped in red as they run over the boy’s lips. The tiniest of cuts turn the lacquer sticky and brown; the boy whimpers in his sleep. “Sticks and stones,” she says excitedly. “Tumble and tremble, ruff ruff.”

“No bite marks,” Spike disputes, carefully cataloging all marks he remembers the boy wearing as decoration. “So it can’t be a vamp. Besides, he’s been burned at least a few times, here,” he lets his finger hover a few millimeters over the slick patch. We’ll go for branding, I guess, but we tend not to like fires so much. You remember why, don’t you, Dru?”

Almost cooing with pleasure, Dru is neither respectful or cautious. She ignores Spike’s drawled question, occupied with curling her nails down a naked, hairless chest—and then makes a noise. “Shields! Shields and _defense_.”

Spike just chuckles. “You make it sound like footie. Yes, he’s still dressed, love. I wasn’t sure if he was quite ready for that yet, and I was feeling... patient.” Remarkably so, given the way the boy has learned to turn babbling into a weapon, but Spike’s seen the soft, defenseless underbelly and it makes his mouth water. He’s wanted this boy since the moment he saw him, dirty and bruised, lost in sewers he couldn’t free himself from.

He’s been _someone’s_ toy, of that Spike has no doubts. Question is whether or not it’s a human with a bent for mischief, or something a touch more serious.

Spike doesn’t really mind which it ends up being. He’ll win, either way.

“May I, Spike?” She’s gone coquettish on him, grey eyes dancing like novas as she looks up at him. She barely waits for his nod before undoing the worn denims, pushing the folds away so she can find her prize. “Ooooo,” she hums when she sees him. “Candy, Spike. He’s like _candy_.”

He smiles at her, indulgent. Habit has his mouth already opening to offer her first taste—but something makes him stop, teeth closing as he considers. Drusilla catches his mood, spidery-fingers drawing back with flick-flick-flick motions as she tucks her arms beneath her, like a cat.

“May I watch?” The question’s down right respectful. It’s odd, and a little worrying, but the boy’s making sleepy, questioning noises, rubbing an eye with his fist, and Spike’s got no time. “Quiet, quiet,” Drusilla promises, creeping away to find a shadow to tuck herself into. “Ghosts and grails.”

“Both of which are damned loud, when they want to be,” Spike murmurs. He runs his hands over a surprisingly broad chest, marveling at the barrel-depth the boy will have when he’s older. Well, might have. He rolls, getting the boy onto his back, blanket pooled around his waist. He could push them further, since the boy is as pliant as a bit of that colored dough stuff, but Spike doesn’t feel the need to be kicked or shoved in his own bed.

Besides. It’s more fun to see the way the blankets shift, shadows creating new hills and valleys with each sweep of his fingers.

The boy is furnace-warm, heat soaking into Spike’s skin as he drags the flat of his nails down a fluttering chest. He’s thin, bones starting to poke through skin that could be a touch cleaner. That’ll come later, though, when his new pretty knows his place. Humming under his breath, Spike’s let his fingers wander between the opened denim jeans, skating around the edge of an uncovered cock.

Commando? Hm. Perhaps Spike isn’t the first to play games like this with him? That thought is a little disappointing, at least until Drusilla clucks from her shadow. “New,” she croons softly. “New, new, new.”

Without thinking, Spike hums the counterpoint to her sing-song revelation, touching the crinkly skin of the boy’s scrotum and then cupping it. The boy moans in his sleep, legs widening, even as the big, strong muscle in the thigh grows tense. “Hm,” Spike muses, rubbing around the base of the boy’s cock. “Like you’ve been touched, but not _touched_ ,” he explains.

Drusilla’s singing nursery rhymes to herself, and Spike knows that her useful insights for the day are over. He likes a good puzzle, though, particularly one like this. A boy, already half-hard and growing harder as his body is teased into excitement, breathing shallowly as he rises from sleep.

“Jesse?” he asks, slurred from lips that don’t work quiet yet. “No, you’re not—”

“Jesse, is it? He the one who kept you?”

Dark eyes fly open, then blink a few times. Instinct has him sitting up, but Spike’s hold on his erection keeps him from getting up. A long, languorous stroke, Spike’s thumb swiping over the tip, has the boy sinking back into the bed with a moan. Cocks are so useful for that, Spike thinks, gleeful. Better than leashes.

“Um,” the boy says, licking his lips. Christ, Spike wants to feel that against him, see those full lips stretch, shiny with his release—but the boy is breathing shallowly, little thrusts of his hips echoing in his eyes like they cause him pain. “You, um, don’t want to do that,” he says. Nervously, sure, but also apologetically.

Spike shifts himself lazily, letting his nails graze the base of the boy’s cock, just to see him gasp. “An’ why’s that, hm? Something bad gonna happen?”

The boy, surprisingly, nods. “Yes! If the Master finds out Jesse lost me _again_ , especially when he’d given me that—that— _stuff_ , and he’s going to be really upset, and he might actually bite me instead of just hit me, or cut me, and—”

“Shhh.” So _that’s_ it. The Master’s playing games with a newly turned vampire, one who’s obviously got connections with this boy, moaning so sweetly as Spike plays with him. “Hush, now, just breathe a bit, that’s it.” He’s not as good as the Master at hitting those right harmonics, but Drusilla croons something soft enough that a human’ll never know he’s hearing it; the boy groans, body growing heavy against the mattress. “There, isn’t that better? Hush-a-bye. Let Spike take care of you, let him make you feel good. Better than old bat-face ever did, aren’t I? Better than your Jesse, too. He could never really touch you, not with permission. Had to wait, groveling at the Master’s feet, to take what was rightfully his.”

“I—the Master—” The boy’s eyes roll back for a moment, body arching as Spike tightens his grip to just this side of pain. Spike’s familiar with the Master’s techniques—if they can be called that—and he and Drusilla have learned how to modify them to suit their needs. Bat-face throws away the choicest morsels, half the time. “You’ll—”

“Didn’t I tell you to hush?” Spike says mildly. Another hint of nails, this time against the sensitive head, has the boy limp and shuddering against the bed, completely pliant. “There, that’s a good boy. You’re a might young for his tastes, aren’t you? But you belonged to someone else.”

Looking drugged with pleasure, the boy nodded. “Jesse... he fought. Darla brought me in to k-keep him agreeable. And Willow.”

“Burnished fire,” Drusilla hummed from her shadow, “red like blood, lighting up the sky, pop pop pop.”

“Ah, the witchling.” And she’s a right bitch, Spike knows, having already had a taste of her powers. If this boy has some hold on her, some influence... Spike smiles, slow and sweet, prompting the boy to smile back. “You know the witchling, pretty? Were you her favorite pet, to stroke and tease?” Another reasons there’s only bruises and burns on him; the witch would leave her marks under the skin, invisible, where clever vampires like Spike could take advantage of them.

The boy nods, head almost lolling. Dark circles make his eyes look black, fathomless pools just waiting to be filled. “Buffy... she said... ”

It’s the final puzzle-piece. The story of the Slayer’s first outing here in Sunnydale is one oft-told. So, this boy has connections to all the up-and-comings, taken and broken by what are probably his former friends. His young, _inexperienced_ , former friends, who’re under the direction of a Master half-crazed from his imprisonment. Hardly the same creature that’d spun Angelus around on his tail so many times.

Perfect.

Drusilla’s kneeling beside the bed now, murmuring low, soft worlds Spike can’t make out. So long as the boy isn’t shying from her, Spike’s content to let her gentle him. It makes it easier for him to roll the boy—“Little whiskers on your kitten face,” “No, not a—” “Pace upon your wall, hissing at the world, Alexander,” “No, _not_ , just Xander, please,” “Shh, good kitten, Xander it shall be,”— _Xander_ onto his side, denims shoved to his knees. Dru palms the slick, before curling her fingers around Xander’s cock, keeping him confused and weak, dazed with pleasure.

Xander opens slowly enough that Spike knows he’s never been taken this way before. Not by a cock, anyway, he amends, as Xander begins rambling about Willow and to stop, please, she was his friend. Dru is there, rolling Xander’s balls and swallowing his words in lush, long kisses. She gives him her fingers to suck, wet, loud sounds that almost mask the gasp of a body breached.

He’s nothing but heat inside, silken warmth that has Spike groaning in bliss. It’s been so long since he’s had a human, longer since one who rocks back, instinctively craving more. Christ. Spike’s going to have to write the Master a note for this, because a boy primped and trained without having ever been truly touched?

All he’s lacking is the frilly bow around his cock.

Drusilla croons as the boy starts to come, lapping it up while still stroking him, nursing him past the point of sensitivity into true hardness again. Ah, the joys of being... “Such a good boy, all hot and eager for me, aren’t you? How old are you, hm? Tell Spike how old you are.”

“Six—sixteen,” Xander gasps, hips pumping mindlessly while Drusilla laps her fingers clean. His eyes are blown wide and Spike recalls hearing about a drug. Hm. He’ll have to get more details about that, later, but for now...

“Such a _big_ boy, then,” Spike says, licking a wet stripe up past the burn. Like he’d suspected, Xander jerks like he’s been shot at the first touch, cock growing even harder in reaction. The witchling, then, and not the fledge Jesse. Perfect. “A big, perfect kitten for our family, won’t you be? You do, don’t you. Say you do, pet, an’ then show me.”

Drusilla’s already got her skirts hiked up, glistening with eagerness. She pillows Xander’s head on her thigh, stroking his hair maternally even as she pulls his mouth closer with each long, slow touch.

“Taste her,” Spike murmurs, fucking slow and hard. God, Xander’s so _eager_ for it, kept ready and unfullfilled for weeks while the Master played his games. Stupid, that, especially with a teenaged boy. “There’s a good kitten, that’s right, nice and gentle as you suck on her.”

Above him, Drusilla gives Spike a blinding smile. “Can we keep him?” she asks, rocking wantonly at odds with her little-girl’s voice. “Please, Spike? I shall be so good to him, make sure I feed him, take him for his walks... ”

Spike starts fucking harder, unable to stop the orgasm he feels fizzing at the base of his spine. He’s so _perfect_ , eager and wanting, a blank-slate, almost, for the two of them to rewrite, whimpering as he laps at Drusilla. He shifts, unexpectedly, pulling his knees underneath him so both Spike and Dru find they have better angles for which to enjoy.

The Master’s loss, then. “Of course, love. Now, then, how else shall we play with our new kitten, hm?”

Spike comes to Drusilla’s sharp, glinting smile. She’s amazing, his princess. And he does so love giving her pressies.


End file.
